


A Red Right Hand

by FrostbitePanda



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Peaky Blinders Fusion, Alternate Westeros, Angst, Betrayal, F/M, Fluff, Guns, Industrial, Inspired By Peaky Blinders, Jonerys AU month 2019, PTSD, Plotting, Politics, Revolution, Romance, Smut, Violence, aesthetic, and also the tale of Marm Mendlebaum, and tags to be added im sure, cause why not, criminal Dany, criminal underbelly, i am also staring at my other WIPs don't worry, it's just a lot of almagamation, just... go with it idk, okay there's nothing very vague about it, our two idiots being idiots, peaky blinders crossover, post WW1-ish, rating to go up, some magical realism, somewhat of a Grand Conspiracy, somewhat of a procedural, sorry - Freeform, vaguely critical of capitalism, vaguely critical of colonialsm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-10 18:13:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20856083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostbitePanda/pseuds/FrostbitePanda
Summary: “It’s been four days,” Robb went on, clearing his throat, “and as far as the Cloaks know, there hasn’t been a replacement yet.”Theon picked something out his teeth, charming as ever. “Aye. That old coot Davos Seaworth’s been filling in.”“That old coot is the best smuggler in the seven boroughs. Maybe in all of Westeros. He has other things to do— he can’t do it forever… and The Dragon needs a keeper.”“Astute,” Theon deadpanned, slouching back in his chair with a sigh and leaning it back on two legs. He waved a hand. “So... what? You want me to put in a good word for you, Stark?”“No,” Robb replied, face impassive, “I want you to put in a good word forSnow.”(a historical AU / Peaky Blinders crossover. Dany the Queen of Thieves and Jon Snow the spy. my entry for Jonerys AU month 2019.)





	A Red Right Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justwanderingneverlost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justwanderingneverlost/gifts).

> trust me, dear readers, you don't have to have seen Peaky Blinders to be able to understand this fic. but, if you haven't... **WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?**

** _September, 3012 AC, Crackclaw Point, UKW_ **

The little boat sliced through the flat water, silent as a wraith. Davos adjusted his grip on the rudder, his shoulders tense. Grey and Jorah flanked her, unblinking and grim, as if they could divine danger from the depthless night. The two Ghiscari oarsman eased the muffled paddles into the sea as gently as laying down a sleeping babe. 

All these precautions… it was all unnecessary, she thought, a bit impatient. They were well beyond the reach of King’s Landing and its many spies, but Davos had insisted, had told her it was the only way Salladhor Saan would meet with her. And her, alone.

The night was featureless. A plane of black water bisecting a dome of stars. She could actually  _ see _ the stars out here, this far from the smog and lights of King’s Landing. She had missed them. She idly wondered why anyone would ever wish to abandon such a sight-- shrink away from the watchful eye of the cosmos. 

But many never had the choice. 

Perhaps they would, one day.

The wind picked up, tossing her hair into her face. Salt stung her cheeks, the acrid scent of petrol from the ships around her, idle and unseen, burned in her nose. 

But one  _ could  _ be seen-- a hulking, pillared shadow cast over the coat of stars, its yellow lights swimming upon the surface of the water, engine churning like the surf not a league away. 

They bellied up to the ship and she was helped up the metal ladder by Jorah, and then hoisted on deck by two men, who stepped away from her as soon as she found her footing on the planks. She adjusted her dress, her hat. 

“Miss Targaryen,” a smooth, almost jovial voice called to her from the dark. “From one thief to another, it is an honor.” 

She pressed her lips together, annoyed by the crass greeting, but she had not exactly expected grace. The owner of the voice stepped into the weak glow of the single lantern lit upon the deck. A slight, dark skinned man with an easy smile on his face as he puffed on a large cigar. He looked every inch a pirate-- his brocade waistcoat sweat-stained, his plush leather boots cracked and nearly ruined by salt and sun. Gold rings on every finger, ears dripping with silver hoops, a gaudy watch chain over his soft belly. A man play acting as the elite aristocrat he would never be.

She nodded to him, trying to be deferential. She was on his ship, after all. “Salladhor Saan,” she greeted, “it is an honor as well.”

He grinned, flashing gold teeth. “Ah, but I do not think you came all this way to flatter a lowly pirate.”

She smiled, small and knowing. “No, Mr. Saan,” she replied coolly, “and I know you do not entertain rivals upon your own ship unless there is a great deal of money to be made.” 

The man’s easy demeanor faded, his mouth tilting to a frown, brow furrowed. “Aye,” he replied, shifting on his feet, plucking the cigar from between his teeth.  _ Odd _ , she thought. She had never known the pirate to be a serious man. “But I’m afraid what I have to offer is more a burden than a boon to you, Miss.” 

She had known something was amiss the moment Yara had come to her with the message two days ago. Daenerys and Saan had come to an uneasy truce not a few months back, and neither was particularly fond of the other, but their peaceable relations proved profitable for them both so they had carried on with little complaint. 

Saan’s insistence on a private audience had been as intriguing as it was worrisome, and now she couldn’t help but feel as though she were suddenly in the crosshairs. Davos had vouched for his old friend-- he’d been the one to first broker the truce, after all… but Jorah and Grey both had protested bitterly. 

She cleared her throat, stood up straighter, all too aware that her only chance for rescue was nearly twenty feet below her, bobbing in a row boat, nearly blind in the dark. “What do you have for me, my friend?” 

Saan’s expression was uneasy, worried, and he looked to the deck. “Something that I cannot possibly sell,” he answered. “Something that has no benefit to me.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “But something  _ I _ may benefit from?” 

He nodded with a sigh, everything about his countenance and demeanor telling her that danger lurked nearby.

She felt her nerves fire, wanting to bolt back down the ladder, to leave this dark ship amidst the black sea and race for the safety of the shore as quickly as possible. 

But safety wasn’t waiting for her on the shore. Safety wasn’t waiting for her anywhere in this strange country that her ancestors had built. Only danger awaited her, and she was well accustomed to its weighty company. 

She was a dragon. And dragons were never welcomed. 

“Well, Mr. Saan, you certainly have my attention,” she finally prompted, the silence growing intolerable. 

“We did not know it was an Imperial ship, marm,” Saan went on after a pause, strangely deferent. “We don’t tangle with the Empire, as a rule. Too much trouble.”

“Not to mention a breach of your contract,” Daenerys warned, cold, eyes flashing in the dark. “Government is  _ our _ jurisdiction.”

Saan swallowed, nodded. He looked meek…  _ scared _ . Daenerys had only spent about an hour in the man’s company when they had drawn up their treaty a few months ago, but Saan had struck her as a typical pirate-- if not a bit more clever. He was crass, quick-witted, and cocky to a fault… but the man who stood before her now was… shaken. 

Saan coughed, continuing. “But this… this ship was unmarked, traveling with all stealth.” He shrugged, almost looking guilty-- an expression she never thought she’d see from a man in his line of work. “My men thought it looked… tempting. A new kind of ship. Sleek and black. We went after it for the craft, not the cargo, truth be told, marm.” He shrugged, apologetic. “Thought it’d be a nice, swift addition to our fleet.” 

She took a careful step closer to him. “What did you find?” 

“Weapons,” he answered shakily. 

She shook her head, unamused. A ship packed with munitions in the hands of pirates would have been a celebrated discovery. “That must have been quite a prize, Mr. Saan.”

“Not guns, or even grenades or mines, marm,” Saan was quick to clarify. “Never seen it’s like before.”

She paused, his words sinking into her slowly, seeping ice into her veins, dread growing in her belly. “Then what was it, Mr. Saan?” 

Saan shifted on his feet. “I’m not sure, marm,” he replied, voice taking on a nervous edge. “This is why I’ve called an audience with you, in such secrecy.” He paused, taking a steadying breath, hands fidgety. He seemed to want to say more, but was at a loss. 

He was terrified, she realized. Dany could see it in his eyes, sense it taking shape and life between them. She felt her own fear needle under her skin, creep up her spine. 

“Show me.” 

  
  


+++

  
  


** _June, 3013 AC, King’s Landing, UKW_ **

“You can’t trust fucking Theon Greyjoy.”

“Aye, I know.”

Jon huffed, leaning back in his chair while he glanced absently at his pocket watch. “So, why are you meeting with him, then?”

Robb pulled his whiskey closer to him, blowing a frustrated breath through his teeth. “Because it’s my job.”

Jon scowled, shifting in his rickety chair and lighting up a cigarette. He did not care much for Robb’s job, but he wasn’t going to scold him for it like he was Catelyn fucking Stark. 

Robb straightened his collar, as if  _ that _ would help him blend in. His brother in all but blood was too sharp a dresser for a blue collar, roughneck pile of shit like Ragman’s. “Thanks for coming, Snow.” 

“Why’d you bring  _ me _ here, anyway?” Jon complained, his already sour mood darkening as he cast his eyes over the nearly empty pub. “To bump jaws with a canary?” He flashed a grin at his companion. “Or maybe you’re looking for a new pocket watch?” 

Robb pursed his lips, as if seriously considering it and Jon barked a laugh. Theon’s wares were hardly ever worth the trouble he took to steal them, much less what he had the audacity to charge for them. “I wonder if Theon offers discounts for the law,” Robb posited. 

Jon barked a bitter laugh. “Aye, or maybe old friends.”

Robb snorted. Describing Theon as an “old friend” was charitable at best. Theon had once upon a time lived with Jon and Robb and the rest of the Starks up North before they had scattered to the winds with the death of Ned Stark, Jon’s dearly missed adoptive father. Ned had taken pity on Theon as a boy, and Theon had repaid Ned Stark’s kindness with all the consequences of a troubled youth before running away to the poppy dens in King’s Landing. It went without saying that the Starks, and Jon, did not hold Theon in very high regard. 

Jon blew out his smoke in a long stream as he and Robb sat in silence. Jon was trying to settle his stubbornly unquiet nerves as he watched the smoke curl into the late afternoon sun slanting in through the grimy, painted windows of Ragman’s Pub-- the seediest watering hole in the seedy borough of Bellows Town. This place would be teeming with sad-sack punters within the hour, after the factories’ whistles. 

“I brought you here, Snow,” Robb went on heavily, tapping his lighter on the table, fidgety, “because Theon’s scared shitless of you.”

“That’s not saying much,” Jon retorted, ashing his cigarette. “Theon’s a flower boy. Flower boys are paranoid, by nature. He’d probably be scared of a newsie who looked at him sideways.” He took a swig of his tepid beer and pointed at his brother. “ _ And  _ I’m not a Cloak anymore, remember?” 

“Would you shut your trap?” Robb hissed, looking around shiftily, as if the gap-toothed boozehound snoozing at the bar would suddenly gather the wherewithal to send them packing because he heard the word ‘Cloak’. “Besides, you have even more reason to beat the piss out of him now that you don’t have a cloak.”

Jon shrugged with a frown. “Can’t argue that.”

They waited. The sound of a newsie hawking the evening paper and the racket of a carriage on the cobblestones floated over the pulsing machine rumbles of the factories and shipyards down the hill. It all mingled in the sleepy little pub to create an air of strange peace. Jon could even hear the racket of motorcars in the distance, high up on Aegon’s Hill. 

“He’s late,” Robb grumbled, looking at his pocket watch again. 

Jon sighed and leaned back in his chair, resisting the urge to, again, tell his brother that this idea was dumb at best and downright dangerous at worst. He took off his cap, raked his fingers through his hair, put it back on. 

“I know what that means,” Robb sighed. 

“That I’m pissed off that you dragged me into this shithole to wait on Theon fucking Grey of all people?”

“Yes.” Robb smirked at him as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What the fuck else would you be doing, Snow?”

Jon felt a sting at that and bit his lip as he looked away. Ever since he’d turned in his cloak and gun nearly six months ago work had been… spotty to say the least and Jon would be lying if it didn’t weigh on him every single day. 

“Don’t look so sore,” Robb consoled with a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You’ll find work soon enough.” Jon watched as a sly smile worked its way over his brother’s mouth. He didn’t like that one bit. 

“What are you—“ he began. 

“Sorry I’m late!” Jon looked up to see Theon Greyjoy taking a seat at their table without preamble. “Got caught up.”

“Usually do,” Robb quipped. 

Theon looked unconcerned, pulling his silver cigarette case out of his vest pocket and lighting one up as the bartender placed a tumbler of rum in front of him. “Cheers, Gendry.”

Theon was a sallow skinned, rail thin rascal with large, green eyes and mousy brown hair. He had the wasted, wild look of a poppy fiend. His clothes were once fine, but were now faded and frayed. He was a lowly counterfeit and a petty thief, but had his greedy hands in many a pot to feed his habit. His value to Robb and the Cloaks came in the form of his knowledge of the multitudes of criminal enterprises of the city, the fact that his sister, Yara Grey, was chief enforcer for Daenerys Targaryen, and his easily bought loyalty. 

“So what’s the story with the Dragon?” Robb asked, cutting to the point. 

Jon sat up, his interest piqued.  _ “The  _ Dragon?” he cut in, eyebrows raised, “As in the Three Headed Dragon?”

Robb nodded. “The very same.” 

“Thought The Dragon was untouchable,” he countered, snubbing out his cigarette.

Robb was infuriatingly reticent, simply adjusting his jacket and looking back to Theon.

Theon frowned in an equivocal sort of way, tilting his glass at Jon. “Nowhere is untouchable in this town, Snow.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair, tugged on the bottom of his vest. “Nowhere and no one. Even the Queen of Thieves and her precious pub.” 

“What can you tell me?” Robb pressed, lighting up another smoke. His brother must have been nervous, Jon thought to himself. Robb rarely had more than four cigarettes in a day and he’d had almost as many in the hour they had been waiting.

Theon shrugged again, turning his tumbler about in his fingers. “Got raided last week. Bronn Blackwater, the barkeep, got nailed.” 

Robb sighed, folding his hands in his lap. “We know that Theon, we’re the ones who nailed him.” 

Theon grinned wolfishly at him. “How much did that fish cost you?”

Robb rolled his eyes, irritation twitching around his mouth. “No more than we pay you, Grey.”

Theon scratched his chin. “Not sure how to take that.” He ashed his cigarette, took a sip of his rum. “Suppose you want to know what the word on the street is, then? What the rabble are gabbering about after the Cloaks kicked in the expensive doors of The Queen of Thieves’ pub?”

“No,” Robb quipped, “we already know that said rabble believe it was all a set up. A ruse.”

“Was it?” Theon inquired hopefully. 

Robb simply stared him down, expression stony. Jon had seen this song and dance before, knew it well. Keep the perp talking, no need to fill the silences with shit they already knew. 

Theon spread his palms, looking vaguely indignant. “Then what the fuck do you need me for, Stark? Seems to me you know all that needs knowin’.”

“It’s been four days,” Robb went on, clearing his throat, “and as far as the Cloaks know, there hasn’t been a replacement yet.”

Theon picked something out his teeth, charming as ever. “Aye. That old coot Davos Seaworth’s been filling in.”

“That old coot is the best smuggler in the seven boroughs. Maybe in all of Westeros. He has other things to do— he can’t do it forever… and The Dragon needs a keeper.”

“Astute,” Theon deadpanned, slouching back in his chair with a sigh and leaning it back on two legs. He waved a hand. “So... what? You want me to put in a good word for you, Stark?”

“No,” Robb replied, face impassive, “I want you to put in a good word for  _ Snow _ .”

Jon wasn’t sure if he had been simply shocked into a stupor or else was just too incensed to speak… because he should’ve fucking known better. As soon as Robb had called him up that morning, Jon had known that something was up. Either way, he was too fucking worked up to defend himself as Theon barked out a laugh and righted his chair with a  _ ‘snap’ _ . 

“Are you having me on?” Theon asked loudly, looking wide eyed between Jon and Robb.

“Yes, Robb,” Jon managed between gritted teeth, turning toward his brother, “are you having good old Theon on?”

Robb put out his cigarette with a sigh. “You two are being a tad dramatic.”

Theon leaned his arm on the table, suddenly looking near incensed. “Dramatic?” he exclaimed. “You honestly want me to go to Daenerys fucking Targaryen and have me put in a good word for a fucking Cloak to run her pub?” He barked a mirthless laugh. “If you want me dead, just put a gun to my fucking head, Stark.”

“Snow’s not a Cloak anymore,” Robb pointed out patiently. 

“Once a Cloak, always a Cloak,” Theon sneered, downing his drink. 

“To all the hells with that,” Jon growled, slamming a fist on the table. “I burned my Cloak and threw the ashes in the Black.”

“Well, fucking good for you, Snow, but that won’t—“

“Fucking hells!” Robb shouted, rapping both hands on the table. “Will you both shut the fuck up?”

Jon bit back his retort, feeling just a bit indignant and not the least bit wounded. He knew why his brother hadn’t told him of his clever little plan— Jon would have never agreed to meet if he had known, but that didn’t stop him from feeling cornered. A feeling he was very,  _ very _ uncomfortable with and his fucking  _ brother _ of all people should have known this— 

“You know just as well as I do  _ why _ and  _ how _ Jon left,” Robb growled, leaning forward in his chair. “I think you’re also familiar with his… ideologies.”

“Aye, but Targaryen doesn’t need a communist to run her damn pub.” Theon pointed at Jon, eyes flashing. “Or a damn ex-Cloak.”

“You know,” Jon started angrily, “I think I’d like to have a say in all this. I’m right fucking here.”

“Times are changing in Flea Bottom,” Robb pushed on, undaunted. “In all of King’s Landing. Daenerys is losing her grip on the Cloaks. They’re either jumping out of her pocket from fear of reprisal, or they’ve been pushed out altogether.”

“Aye,” Jon spat bitterly, “Aliser Thorne throwing his weight around. Won’t last long.”

“Normally you’d be right, Snow,” Robb answered with a thoughtful look. “But there’s something different this time. The Queen of Thieves has put quite a dent in the coffers of some very wealthy and very powerful people.”

“Lannisters,” Jon provided with some poorly hidden disgust. 

Robb inclined his head, lighting up another cigarette. “Aye, Lannisters, Tyrells, Tullys, politicians… even some fat fucks across the Sea. If they have money, they’re rightly pissed and they’ve grown rather tired of the Cloaks doing fuck all about it.”

Jon shook his head, thoroughly unconvinced. “She’s only been here a few years. She’s a small fry, a newcomer. She’s got Flea Bottom and not much else. The fucking Seconds Sons have more sway than she does.” He leaned forward, pointing an angry finger at his brother. “Alliser-- and more importantly  _ you _ , Stark-- won’t have the support to bring her down.” 

Robb sniffed, crossing his legs with a conciliatory tilt of his head. “You’re smart, Snow, but you’re not that smart.” He shrugged. “Let’s just say… that this comes from the top.”

“The king?” Theon asked in wonder. 

“More likely the Prime Minister,” Jon corrected, cynical. Robb nodded and Jon silently seethed, waiting for his brother to elaborate. 

“What’s worse than a criminal with friends?” Robb went on, looking at Theon. 

Theon exhaled, a trail of smoke curling in the dusty, late afternoon light. “A criminal with principles.” 

Robb pointed his finger at Theon in triumph. “You’re full of surprises, Grey.” 

Jon set his jaw, flexing his fist in his lap. There was a brief, intense silence before Robb cleared his throat. “So, Mr. Grey, you see… different circumstances call for different… solutions.” Robb took another sip of his whiskey. “We’ve squeezed Targaryen to the point where she faces either a coup, a gang war, or something else equally as mad for her to survive,” Robb went on, infuriatingly ambivalent to Jon’s obvious anguish. “She’s stretched herself thin. Too thin, some may say. She will either retract peaceably, or lash out.” 

Theon kissed his teeth. “I suppose you’re betting on the marm lashing out.” 

“Don’t call her that in my presence, Grey,” Robb snapped. Theon shifted uneasily and Robb held out a hand to Jon. “My brother here, he presents an intriguing bridge between two worlds in such trying times, though it may prove a risk… but we all know that Daenerys Targaryen is not averse to taking risks.”

Theon blinked slowly, looking between the both of them as if coming to the same reluctant realization as Jon was at that moment. “A Cloak gone commie might just sound appealing to Targaryen right now,” Theon supplied.

“I’m not a fucking communist,” Jon protested.

“Whatever your political leanings,” Robb went on levelly, “as far as Targaryen goes, you’re a fucking commuinist.” 

“It’s funny,” Jon returned, voice cold and unwavering, “you’re speaking as though I’ve accepted the job.”

Robb glanced over at him, before cutting his eyes to Theon and nodding. Theon nodded back, gathering his hat and refraining from placing any payment for his drink on the table. “Whatever you gave Blackwater,” he warned as he straightened his coat, “double it.” And he was out the door. 

“Are you fucking kidding me, Robb?” Jon rounded on his brother the instant Theon was gone. 

Robb looked past him, holding up two fingers to the barkeep. “Two whiskeys, Gendry.” He looked back to Jon, seeming apologetic, to his credit. “Keep them coming. We’ll be here awhile.”

  
  


+++ 

  
  


** _June, 3013 AC, Driftmark, UKW_ **

The morning mists were thick, making the tangles of driftwood scattered upon the beach appear ghostly, the echo of the surf pounding upon the sand haunting, following Dany eerily as she urged her horse from the shore and up the bare hill. 

She paused at the top of the slope, shivering in the cold drizzle, taking in the dark line of clogged shipyards at the west side of the island, the empty skeletons of cranes, the distant stacks bleeding black into the carpet of gray sky. The castle of Driftmark, angular and brutal, stood empty and cold above it all. 

Such was the state of her ancient homeland— stained and plundered, the people who had wrested it from her family so long ago not learning from the follies of ages past. Far to the east, the ruins of Old Valyria still smoked and seethed, a constant reminder now prudently ignored in the pursuit of profit. 

Her eyes drifted to the valley below her, where dots of wagons and the tendrils of kitchen fires littered the pale green moor. 

She kicked her horse down the hill, slowing her to an easy amble as they began to enter the camp. Most families were still waking, washing faces in buckets hung on the walls of their painted wagons, breaking their fast with fried anchovy and crusty bread. Men murmured and smoked on long pipes, grooming their precious steeds. Women hung up washing as children tended to fires or else abandoned their chores to run among the wagons. 

As she rode by, sitting straight and proud upon her silver mare, all who noticed her stood and inclined their heads. Those who bore caps took them off in deference. “ _ Khaleesi _ ” some whispered, but most simply fell silent. Children lost interest in their games and followed in her horse’s wake, laughing and whispering excitedly. 

She finally reached her destination, coming to a stop before a large, elaborately decorated wagon. She dismounted smoothly, boots squelching in the mud, and waited. 

A woman stepped from the little door at the back of the wagon, a small, knowing smile upon her face. 

“I saw you coming me to today, Daenerys Targaryen,” the old woman greeted in Dothraki. Her soot black hair was streaked with gray, sitting atop her head in a messy bun. She pulled her ratty shawl tighter over her shoulders with bony fingers adorned in silver rings. Her whole body rustled like dry leaves when she moved— bangles and beads hanging from every limb.

“Vella,” Dany returned with a smile and a curtsy. “I suppose since you saw me imposing upon you and your hospitality this morning, you also have prepared some tea?”

The woman’s smile broadened. “Come in.”

Dany crawled into the wagon, feeling claustrophobic and oddly nostalgic all at once. The air was close, heavily perfumed. It almost instantly made her feel a bit drugged. She took a seat on a tiny and well worn chintz ottoman as Vella took a kettle from a kerosene heater at the back of the wagon. “How is your Silver?” the woman asked as she poured her and Dany a cup of the strong, fermented tea that the Dothraki were so fond of. 

“She is as lovely as ever,” Dany said, taking a sip and wincing a bit. She was not well used to the beverage any longer. 

“It’s good to see you haven’t traded her in for one of those sleek, delicate creatures from Highgarden.” 

“Those sleek, delicate creatures from Highgarden are a good investment,” Dany returned dryly, blowing upon her steaming tea, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. “But I did not come here to speak about horses or business investments.”

Vella inclined her head and lowered herself on the bench across from Dany. She lit up her pipe, puffing and filling the already thick air with a pungent smoke. “You have a new weight about you,  _ khaleesi _ .” 

Dany nodded, downing the rest of her tea and placing the empty cup in front of her host. “I acquired a new trouble not but a few seasons ago, maegi.”

“And you just now have come to see me?” Vella asked, chiding and knowing. “It has been much too long,  _ Khaleesi _ .” Dany said nothing, remaining as patient as she could within the sweltering and smothering wagon, sweat pooling at her collarbone. 

The woman shook her head, her lined, kind face turning worried. “Such like an Andal,” she muttered in Dothraki, as if Dany wouldn’t understand her. Vella leaned forward, plucked the emptied cup from the little table and shook it about, peering at it through the gray, dusty light that filtered weakly through the carved screen over the small porthole window over her shoulder. 

“War awaits you,” the seer said, emphatic, placing the cup back down. “Death. Fire. Blood.”

Dany folded her hands in her lap, already regretting her journey here. “Are there any solutions in your tea leaves, maegi, or only more burdens?” 

The woman crossed her arms, taking a long draw from her pipe. “You will win the war, but you must make friends with enemies. You must do things you would not tolerate. You must leave to return.”

Dany fought to keep from rolling her eyes, fought to keep from chiding herself. She felt foolish, coming to this cheap conjurer. Dany was still regarded as  _ Khaleesi _ , though such a title had ceased to mean anything long before she had ever married their last  _ Khal _ . She was still loved and cherished by her adopted people, still fought for the diasporic remnants of what was once a proud people where others would not, but she was no lover of their superstitions. Their religion, boiled down to parlor tricks to part the unwary from their silver, even if the Dothraki did not see it as such. 

And yet, here she was, searching for counsel in clumps of tea leaves, mind clogged and clouded by smoke and incense. 

Finally, Dany nodded, rummaging in her purse for three silvers and placing them on the table. “Thank you, maegi, you have offered much insight.” 

She made to stand, going for the door, most eager to escape the closeness of the wagon. 

“ _ Khaleesi _ ,” Vella called after her. Dany hesitated, hand on the latch, and looked back at the old woman. “A wolf will come to your door, but you must not shoo it away.” She took another pull from her pipe, blew out a long, blue trail of smoke. “Wolves are fierce in war.” 

Something in the maegi’s tone made Dany’s hands tingle, her blood chill. She cleared her throat, nodded, and finally threw open the door, going back to her horse. 

  
  


+++ 

  
  


** _June, 3013 AC, King’s Landing, UKW_ **

“I think he’ll do it, captain.” 

“Hm,” Alliser Thorne hummed, puffing on his pipe as he threw his brother’s service folder on the desk between them. His beady eyes flashed. “You  _ think _ ?” 

Robb cleared his throat, shifted in his chair. “I do not know when, exactly, but I believe he will be meeting with Davos Seaworth soon enough.” 

Aliser laughed quietly, and the room was filled with nothing but the cracking of the guttering hearth and the distant whistle of the Dragonstone train for a time. 

“Cloak killers don’t last long in my town, Stark,” Alliser drawled, a long stream of smoke puffing through his nasty smile. “Some might think that you’re graspin’. Tryin’ to cover your worthless bastard brother’s hide.” He leaned back in his chair, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe that was threatening to go out. “And some might say I’m helpin’ you do it.”

Robb straightened in his chair, swallowing his well of outrage. “Most people, are stupid, Ser,” he replied coolly. “They don’t see the... long term.” 

Alliser grinned coldly at him. “The long term,” he intoned with a nod. His commanding officer stood with a groan, strode to the hearth across the room. He thrust Jon’s file into it, letting the tops of the weakening flames dance across the paper, blacken the edges. “It’s a funny thing, men’s…  _ beliefs _ ,” he looked back to Robb with a wolfish sort of grin, “They rarely change.”

Robb coughed, feeling cornered, knowing all too well what Thorne was alluding to. “Aye, Ser.” 

Alliser held the file for a moment longer, eyes taking on a hungry light, before yanking it back, slapping a stray flame on it’s edge with a bare palm. He circled back to his chair slowly, sitting down once more. 

“We’ll drink on it, Stark,” he said as he popped open a bottle of very expensive scotch. “We clean this precinct up for once and for all…” He lifted his glass and Robb mirrored the gesture, his stomach tied in knots, oddly. “And the White Wolf redeems himself… all in good time.”

“All in good time,” Robb repeated, a bit weakly, as he raised his glass. 

They threw back their drinks and Robb focused on the burn in his belly, rather than the heat of the vaguely hateful gaze from the man before him.

  
  


+++

  
  


Jon threw his empty cigarette case down on his desk with a curse. 

His lantern hissed and jumped, the fuel nearly out. He did not have a single silver to buy more. 

He could hear the couple next door shouting at each other. Probably the husband spending his meager wage on rum again. Above him, a babe wailed, colicky and restless. He could just hear its mother’s coos and ineffective lullabies over the racket. 

He thumbed the corner of the file he was bent over, his other hand pressing into his throbbing temple. He’d read all contained within so many times it was a wonder he hadn’t memorized the whole thing. 

Daenerys Targaryen, the far-flung ‘beggar princess’. The last descendant of her ruined house, the same house who had built the streets he trod every day. 

The Empire of the United Kingdoms of Westeros had never been much interested in such a peasant, even if myth and magic seemed to follow her everywhere she went, no matter how much the propagandists may have tried to suppress the wild tales. A friendless, penniless girl wandering a war-torn wasteland a world away, married off to the last lord of a dying race— one that would eventually be wiped away as good as her own once proud and ancient name. 

Hubris was a funny thing. 

But there was just something he was  _ not _ understanding. 

_ Reliable accounts of recent contact with a known terrorist cell— Sons of the Harpy. Suspected of smuggling weapons across the Narrow Sea into Blackwater Bay for the benefit of said organization _ . 

Jon did not know much about the Queen of Thieves. His time with the Cloaks had been mostly wasted on spying on union leaders and breaking up gatherings that were suspected of political maneuvering (although, more often, they were simply blokes playing dice). Besides, many of his fellow Cloaks and commanding officers were paid to look the other way. But he  _ did _ know that Targaryen was not as bloodthirsty as her fellow crime lords. Her hands were far from clean, but she kept a short leash on her attack dogs. 

And even the crulest of crime lords never tangled with fucking  _ terrorists _ . There was absolutely no profit in terror. Nothing to gain from fear that could not be leveraged. 

_ “Find out what weapons she has, brother, _ ” Robb had told him, his voice oddly shaky, maybe a bit desperate.  _ “Where she stores them. Who she is smuggling them for.” _

_ “You seem awful certain she has these weapons,” _ Jon had retorted. 

Robb had pointedly ignored him, as he was want to do when Jon was being contrarian. “ _ That is your goal. And then it will be all over, Snow. They’ll destroy all record of your… crimes. You can move on with your life. _ ”

Jon scoffed, remembering his brother’s entreaty, bitter and a bit petulant. He looked about his bare flat, with a tiny coal furnace, a doorless wardrobe, his narrow bunk of a bed, the cracked washbasin on the warped table next to it and the mended chair and rickety desk that doubled as a dining table at his drafty window. Move on with what life, exactly? 

He was barely able to make ends meet with the odd jobs he was able to find. He was a week late with rent as it was. Maybe, just  _ maybe _ this gig could offer a means of steady employment, if nothing else. Robb must have known this would have been the primary incentive, no matter how Jon tried to keep his struggles from his brother. The fact that it was a paying job wrapped inside a larger, perhaps perilous mission notwithstanding. 

He looked back down at the file before him, dark mood growing darker, turning back to the first page. He stared at the faded black and white portrait of the woman he was meant to spy on, his hopefully future employer. 

_ “And don’t get distracted, Snow,”  _ his brother had warned before they had left Ragman’s.  _ “She’s pretty, but you’re a bloody professional, right?” _

Jon had brushed it off, but as soon as he had arrived back at his flat and opened the folder Robb had given him, he wanted to find his brother and throttle him. ‘Pretty’ was a paltry word to describe the woman in the photograph, and you’d have to be made of fucking stone to not react even  _ a little _ , no matter how ‘professional’. 

He traced over the first line under her name:  _ Known aliases “The Queen of Thieves, Marm, Mother, Khaleesi, Breaker of Chains” _

The documents went on to elaborate on all of her aliases, on how she had earned them, what they meant. Except for the last one. 

He slumped back in his chair.  _ Breaker of Chains _ . 

Sometimes, while he was at his lowest, he could still feel the weight of the shackles around his ankles. Could hear the scrape of the links against the damp stone floor.

The lantern finally guttered out and the moth eaten curtains fluttered like ghosts in an errant breeze that filtered through the open window. A night watchman barked the late hour from the street below, just as the bells from Baelor’s Sept rang distantly from its faraway perch on Aegon’s Hill.

He sighed in defeat, going to find his meager bed. 

  
  


+++

  
  


It was sweltering in the house. 

Missy was currently throwing the windows open wide, though the air outside was humid and sooty. Daenerys did not much care at this point. The heat had become intolerable. 

“How’d it go?” Yara asked her as she sat down at the table across from her. Dany attempted to cool herself with a painted paper fan. 

“About as well as you’d expect,” Dany answered. Yara sighed, leaning her boots on the table. Dany really wished she wouldn’t, but she was too fond of and too indebted to the woman besides to scold her for it. She could get a new table easily enough. 

“What do we do now?” Yara inquired, dabbing her forehead with a dirty kerchief. 

“I’m working on a plan,” Dany replied, as calmly as she could. Yara looked her over, skeptical. 

“I can help you, marm.”

“I know,” she replied simply, emphatically. She had spent hours the night before fretting and pacing her bedroom after she’d arrived home. After she’d oversaw the transport of her heaviest burden to its newest hiding place. The fourth in almost as many months. 

She did not have the energy for anything more on the matter just yet. “Anything of note, Yara?”

Yara nodded, knowing better than to press the subject, rightfully taking Dany’s change of topic as the cease and desist it was. “Two scabs tried to sneak into the wire cutting factory on Silver Street.”

Dany smiled thinly. The wire cutter’s guild was in its infancy, and so was an easy target. It did not help that it was primarily made up of women. “Sabotage, I’m guessing?”

Yara nodded. “Took care of them easily enough.”

Dany wanted to ask what ‘took care of them’ meant, but knew better than to seek specifics. They were likely facedown in the Black. 

The hefty price for peace. For revolution. 

“Anything else?” Dany inquired as she nibbled at her deviled ham sandwich. Economical. Times were tough at present.

“My brother came to me with an interesting proposition, marm,” Yara went on, swinging her boots from the table, her long face serious, gray eyes downturned. Dany knew well why. Neither one of them were particularly fond of Yara’s brother and did not trust him any further than they could toss his scrawny hide, though, he still had his uses. 

Dany lifted her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“He thinks he’s found a proper replacement for Blackwater.” Yara sniffed, shifted in her chair. “Jon Snow.”

The name was vaguely familiar, but she could not quite place it. That usually wasn’t a good sign. Dany leaned back in her chair, spinning her mother’s ring around her finger with her thumb. “And what do you know of this Jon Snow? Why does your brother of all people think that he is a proper candidate?”

“He’s a vet,” Yara replied with a shrug. Dany straightened at that. She had something of a soft spot for the veterans, victims of an uncaring and greedy government— most came home so fucking shell shocked they could just barely function in society anymore. 

Castaways, forgotten souls. The Queen of Thieves’ chosen children. 

Dany lit up a cigarette and motioned for her friend to continue. 

“If you’re wondering where you might have heard his name… he used to be a Cloak,” Yara went on. “And he’s Robb Stark’s adopted brother.”

Dany barked a laugh at that. “What a fine joke your brother is playing.” She took a long pull of her cigarette. 

Yara shifted forward, leaning her arms on the table with a shake of her head. “I thought so, too, at first.” 

“At first?”

“Jon Snow didn’t quit the Cloaks to pursue painting, marm,” Yara said dryly. “He was fired after he was commanded to shoot up the Lyseni shipyard strikers a few months back and refused.” Yara dug in her vest pocket, pulling out a half-smoked cigar and lit it up with much puffing. “According to Theon, Snow fought off four of his brothers. Even killed one. Got old wolf’s blood or somethin’ in his veins, they say. Only thing that saved him from the block or a black cell was his brother and old Jeor when he was still around.” Yara ashed her cigar, looked at Dany pointedly. “He went and burned his cloak… threw it in the Black. Along with all his medals.”

Dany perked up at that. “He’s decorated?”

Yara nodded, leaning over and pulling a file from the battered case at her feet. “The Spider got ahold of this for me. Wasn’t gonna come to you without due diligence, marm,” she told her as she passed it over. 

Dany took it, flipping it open. She tried her best to school her face at the picture that greeted her when she did so, but obviously had failed. 

Yara chuckled. “Aye, marm. Though I’m not so inclined, he’s a pretty lad.”

He was indeed ‘pretty’, as Yara had put it. Dany flipped up the picture of the dark-eyed, dark-haired young soldier and skimmed over the rest of the report. “Northerner,” she pointed out. “Northerners are not exactly a… friendly lot.” 

“No, marm,” Yara agreed, “But Northerners got that wolf’s blood.” 

“And I have dragon’s blood,” Dany returned, continuing her perusal of the file. “Awarded the Silver Stag for courage,” she recited, “prizes from a usurper pretender.” 

“Aye, marm,” Yara answered, grimacing as she took down a swallow of gin. She never was one for gin, but it was all that Dany kept in her house. Yara Greyjoy would take what she could get. “But more interestin’ is  _ why _ he got that medal.”

“Mm,” Dany returned, unsure, “what did he do to earn such a prize?”

Yara shrugged. “Need t’ get the long-form service record for that.”

“And we can’t get that without raising red flags, I presume?” 

Yara nodded. “The Spider  _ does _ tell me that Jon Snow was once called ‘the White Wolf of the Royne’ while overseas.” She threw her shoulders up, resigned. “Not sure what that means, but it  _ sounds _ bloody good.” 

Dany frowned, looking back to the folder. She had seen the devastation of the Royne. Had seen it’s waters slicked with oil and blood alike, had smelled the charred bones of prisoners and the camps that held them. All in the name of profit and so-called progress. 

“Was he a POW?” she asked. 

Yara shrugged. “Seems likely, but, again, need the long form file for all that.”

“Why would a decorated war hero be wanted by the very government he bled for?” she asked, sardonic, tracing her finger over the line, shining with fresh ink, that read  _ suspected communist sympathizer. _ It was not an official indictment, but this Jon Snow might as well have a target painted on his back. 

Yara shrugged and took another pull of her cigar. “You know how it goes, marm,” she answered, not picking up on the rhetorical nature of Dany’s question, as she sighed out a gray tail of smoke. “Refuse to slaughter workers demanding a livin’ and suddenly you’re an enemy to the Empire. And y’ don’t make many friends when you go around killin’ Cloaks.” 

Dany leaned back in her chair, her mind buzzing. She was distracted for a moment as Missy returned to the breakfast room, letting in Dany’s three precious hounds as she did so. “My loves,” Dany cooed as her dogs whined and leapt for her attention. She petted each adoringly in turn and Missy went to the sideboard and poured herself some tea, before settling herself at the table without invitation. Missy needed no permission. 

Drogon, her big black beast, laid at her feet, as Viserion, pale and smaller, placed his head in her lap with a sigh. Rhaegal settled for begging for pets from Yara, nudging his rusty red snout into her palm. 

Dany handed over Jon Snow’s file to Missy, who took it without question and began roving over it immediately. 

“Jon Snow might be a vet, a Cloak killer, and a possible communist, but that does not explain why I should let him run my pub,” Dany finally told Yara. In truth, she was covering, drawing out what else Yara could glean about this man. Her mind was half made up already, the maegi’s words from just a few days ago, no matter how derided, echoing in her head. 

“You've said much the same about the other candidates,” Yara returned, ashing in her cigar. “You’re not goin’ to find another roach like Blackwater. His breed is all but gone.” 

“Roaches prove useful until they don’t,” Missy cut in coldly. 

“They’re also easily bought, as we’ve found,” Dany added, dry, as she put out her cigarette. Bronn was as wily as they came, a survivor and a good barkeep… kept the peace at The Dragon. But good barkeeps were no longer what Dany was looking for. She needed someone with nuance, perspective. Someone who could maintain a more trained, weather eye and keep his mouth shut for more than a few silvers. 

“Thank the gods we got to him first, eh marm?” Yara quipped with a sly grin. 

Dany smiled, a bit indulgent. “I wouldn’t be too smug, Yara,” she returned, feeding a whining Drogon a dollop of deviled ham. “The Cloaks have doubtless figured it out by now, as witless as they can be most of the time.”

“Aye,” Yara agreed, “And Aliser ain’t so witless as the rest of ‘em.” 

Dany inclined her head, her shoulders tensing. Yet another obstacle that had been placed upon her path. 

“Jon Snow’s brother couldn’t be bought, marm, as you know,” Yara pointed out after a small pause. “Stands to reason Snow might be of the same… persuasion.”

“Yes, but that will likely make our job more difficult,” Dany countered, taking a careful sip of her tea. “Loyalty works both ways.”

Yara frowned, conceding, and finished her cigar. 

“Theon grew up with Snow, didn’t he?” Missandei inquired, turning a page of Jon’s report. 

“Aye,” Yara answered, plucking a sandwich from the platter at the center of the table and sniffing at it. Evidently, she liked what she found, for she took an enormous bite. “But there isn’t exactly peace between the two.” 

“Well that’s a good sign, at least,” Dany said. “How do we know this isn’t a set up?” 

“Oh, it is almost certainly a set up, marm,” Yara answered thickly through a mouthful of sandwich. “Gendry told me as much day after last.” 

Dany snorted. “I thought Robb Stark was smarter than that,” she answered, taking another swig of her tea. “You’d think he’d know better than to meet up at Ragman’s with Jon Snow and Theon fucking Grey.” 

“He might’ve done it on purpose,” Missy provided, not looking up from Jon’s file. “Or that could be giving him too much credit.” 

“Too much credit would be my wager,” Yara drawled, finishing the sandwich in a single gulp and licking some stray deviled ham from her thumb. “Stark’s smart, but too fucking naive for all that. Plus, I reckon that old Aliser ain’t giving him all the… information.”

“My inquiry still stands, then,” Dany went on, absently stroking Viserion’s head with her thumb. 

“It’s probably a set up,” Yara answered flatly. 

Dany raised her eyebrows. “So I should trip the wire willingly?” 

Yara licked her lips and laughed, looking away. Missy cleared her throat and leaned toward Dany, looking pensive. “What’s better, marm… a trap that trips you or one that you trip yourself?” 

Yara pointed at Missy approvingly. “It’s this bait n’ switch or another trap that may not be so obvious, marm.” She looked back to Dany, eyes proud. “‘Y’ve made quite a name for yourself and if it’s one thing the lot ‘round here hate, it’s a woman with power.”

Dany was silent for a long moment, tapping a finger on the arm of her chair. She leaned forward, pouring herself a gin. She normally did not indulge this early, but she figured she would need it. “Missy, ring Tyrion for me. We have much to discuss.” 

  
  


+++ 

  
  


The Three Headed Dragon was perhaps the grandest establishment the borough of Flea Bottom boasted. 

It wasn’t saying much, as Flea Bottom was little more than about two dozen blocks of ramshackle row houses surrounded by a wasteland of docks, derricks, and machine shops. 

Jon had never spent much time in Flea Bottom. One never did if you could help it, as a rule. He lived in neighboring Bellows Town. Aptly named— it was the only place that boasted more stacks than Flea Bottom, but even then, Bellows Town was still more reputable… namely in that it wasn’t ruled by a criminal. 

There was a saying in King’s Landing— “all shit rolls downhill and downhill is Flea Bottom”. Of course, Flea Bottom was also a shipping hub, a vital artery that pumped goods and trade right to the top of the Red Keep. People of the so-called ‘upper boroughs’ spit upon Flea Bottom, but without it, King’s Landing would be nothing but a sleepy backwater that no one would give two shits about. 

This very important condition did not change the fact that Flea Bottom’s streets were muddy and smelled of horseshit and other shit besides. That night soil was tossed from windows without warning and ladies would walk the street with umbrellas on sunny days. Windows never let much sun in, because the soot from the factories was never washed away as it was a losing battle. Cars were exceedingly rare, but the rumble of machines was a constant chorus. 

As he ventured into the heart of it, into the central canals that had been coined ‘The Mud Gate’ that stunk of petrol and rotted fish, there seemed to be a difference. He couldn’t place it until he passed by a shop window. 

He could see his reflection. The windows were clean.

He continued on, his attention heightened, trying to gather what other subtle changes he could discern, but he arrived at his destination soon after. 

The Three Headed Dragon was a polished jewel in the rough. A gold enamel bar with an enormous framed mirror gleamed in the early morning sun. The polished wood chairs, deep cedarwood bench seats and tables, carved molding and a colorful tiled ceiling, waxed wood floors and bright bronze foot and hand railings all made for a dazzling sight in the dawn light. The washed windows were framed with gold filigree, topped with stained glass transoms with red dragons mullioned in the middle. There was even a phone in the back and copper spittoons spread throughout the dining room. Luxuries that were rarely enjoyed below Visenyna’s Hill. 

Truth be told, Jon was a bit flabbergasted. Last time he’d been in a pub this nice, it’d been with his regiment, sweeping into some unsuspecting Tyroshi town a half a world away.

He took off his hat, standing in the middle of the pub, taking stock of the place. So this is where he’d be working for the next… who the hells knew. Robb hadn’t been specific on the timeline.  _ “We’ll get you out of there as soon as we can, Snow.” _

Jon flinched at the sound of a clearing throat from behind him. 

He turned around quickly, going for his gun, before seeing the older gentleman standing at the entrance of the private drinking room at the front of the pub, next to the bar. The man raised his eyebrows, nodding to where his hand had flown, though Jon had tried to recover. “Y’ came armed,” the man said, “that’s either the smartest thing y’ could’ve done, or the dumbest.” 

Jon said nothing, handing over his gun without protest and the man nodded approvingly. “Don’t have anythin’ else on y’ I need to know about, eh lad?” 

“No, sir.”

“That’s a good lad,” the man answered with a smile, looking over Jon’s gun. It was a Catspaw. Nothing special, but Jon knew that Davos could see the filed off serial number. “Now, let’s have a talk, eh?” 

In the small, but handsomely appointed room was another man, dark skinned… probably Ghiscari. He was stern eyed and none too welcoming. “Grey, this is Jon Snow. Jon Snow, this is Grey. He works for Miss Targaryen.” 

Jon nodded, his anxiety ratcheting up as he caught sight of Grey’s gun belt around his shoulders. It was poorly hidden, so if Targaryen was trying to pull any funny business, she was doing a shit job. Daenerys Targaryen did not strike him as a half-asser, so he felt assured on that account, at any rate. 

Jon shook stiff hands with Grey and Davos held out Jon’s gun, to his immense surprise. 

Jon took it and looked around for the one person who was glaringly missing from this meeting, his anxiety mounting. The three men settled in the booth as Davos offered him a light before puffing at his pipe. Grey refrained. 

“This is just a formality, lad,” Davos began. “Have t’ be sure y’ are who y’ say y’ are, and that y’ know what yer gettin’ yerself into.” He leaned back in his seat, tucking his tobacco envelope back into his vest. “I ‘spose y’ already know who I am, seein’ as though y’ were a Cloak not so long ago.”

“Aye,” Jon answered with a nod. “Davos Seaworth. The best smuggler in King’s Landing.”

“Aye, lad, and I’m damn tired of runnin’ two shops at once, if y’ get my meanin’.”

Jon inclined his head. “I can see how that would become… trying.”

“Grey, here is gon’ ask y’ some questions. Security purposes y’ see. N’ then we’ll draw up a contract of employment, if all seems agreeable.”

At Jon’s bewildered look, Davos laughed. “The Dragon’s a legitimate business lad. And before we go any further…” he shared a look with Grey. “We’ll need some assurances… that you know full n’ well the conditions of yer employment: y’ will not be involved with any of the proprietor’s other business dealin’s and y’ won’t be havin’ but minimal contact with Miss Targaryen. So iffen yer lookin for anythin’ other than a good means to make a livin’, I suggest y’ go back the way y’ came.”

Jon resisted shifting his in his chair, his mouth suddenly gone dry. How in the absolute fuck was he supposed to do his…  _ other _ job if he was going to be kept under lock and key in a fucking pub? He cleared his throat and nodded, figuring it was best to keep conversation to a minimum. 

“Good,” Davos proclaimed with a nod. He stood up with a groan and walked to the door. “Now, if y’ll ‘cuse me I’m off t’ do some countin’. Come find me in the back room after yer done here, Mr. Snow, n’ I’ll show y’ around.” 

After Davos had left, Grey straightened in his seat and folded his hands on the table in front of him. That’s when Jon noticed the folder under the man’s arms. It was a faded green— a service folder from the Royal Imperial Infantry. 

He guessed he should have known… a woman in Daenerys’ position didn’t get there by neglecting to do her due diligence. 

“Jon Snow,” Grey began, his Common Tongue thickly accented, “I am here to ask you some questions. It is important you answer honestly.”

Jon coughed, anxiety inching higher, and nodded. 

“You serve four years in Essos, correct?” 

“Aye… Tyrosh and a bit in Volantis.”

“Mm,” Grey hummed with a nod, looking down to the folder and opening it up. “You win two medals. What for?”

Jon licked his lips, taking a hearty pull of his cigarette. He was not particularly fond of revisiting his time across the Sea. “I killed the right people at the right time.”

Grey glared at him, unamused. 

Jon turned his hand up on the table. “You asked for honesty.”

The other man pinched his lips, irritated, but resigned. “Why join Imperial Forces?” he went on after a pause, his voice clipped. 

“Duty. Honor… purpose.”

“And did you find those?”

“No.” What kind of fucking job interview was this? He leaned his arms on the table, snuffing his cigarette out. “What business is it of yours?”

Grey only stared at him, his coppery eyes cold, patience obviously wavering. He looked back to the folder. “Honorable discharge two years ago. You stay in Winterfell for few months before you move to King’s Landing. Why do this?”

Jon sat back in his chair, faintly astounded. “The fuck kind of question is that?”

“Was it because you could not find… purpose, as you say? You move from family and home to city?”

“My brother was already here,” Jon gritted, growing weary, “he got me a job.”

“Gold Cloaks.”

“Aye.”

Grey nodded, brow wrinkled, skepticism lining his face. “You leave home for glory… twice. You go from castle in country to row house in slum…” Grey mused, as if trying to wrangle it all out to himself. “And now you want to keep bar, Jon Snow?”

Jon had to bite the inside of his cheek, shamefully unprepared for the tack his interrogator was taking. 

Grey waited, patient, his steady gaze unnerving. 

“I’ve tried for guts and glory. God and country and all that nonsense. Didn’t go too well for me, as I’m sure you already damn well know.” He pointed to the folder in front of Grey. He waved a hand to the bar at large. “Thought I’d try civilian life. Tend bar, have a garden, that sort of ho hum shit.”

“You win two medals. Is this not glory?” 

Jon stared, not truly believing what was happening. “And what about you?” Jon retorted hotly, waving his hand at Grey. “You’re Ghiscari, right?”

The man did not answer, gazing at him with an impassable expression that only served to irritate Jon more. “I know you fought in the War. Maybe even at the Royne. You’re the right age and I know you survived. So, by all accounts I know that you also killed the right people at the right time.” Jon leaned forward, gave his stoic companion a significant look. “You tell me, Grey, did that feel like glory to you?”

There was a prolonged moment in which the man sized Jon up. And Jon let him, relaxing back into his seat, puffing at his smoke while he spun his water glass on the table. 

Finally, with a little exhale through his nose that could’ve almost been a  _ laugh _ , Grey smiled. It was so small and so quick, it was a wonder Jon didn’t miss it. The man nodded, snapping the folder closed. He shifted, pulling two key rings from his trouser pocket. He slid them to Jon over the table. “Keys to the pub, the safe, and the office in back.” He said pointing to the one with three keys on it. He indicated the other— a single key attached to a rather handsome tassel. “To flat, upstairs.”

“Flat?!” Jon exclaimed. “Am I expected to…  _ move _ here?”

Grey blinked at him, as if he had just asked him something extraordinarily stupid. “Yes, Jon Snow.”

“Why?” he protested, something queer and flighty taking hold of him. He was meant to be trapped here, then?  _ Easier to keep tabs on me.  _ “I have my own bloody flat.”

“The walk to Bellows Town is too long and too dangerous,” Grey explained patiently. “Miss Targaryen prefer her barkeep to stay in Flea Bottom… particularly above her pub. If you have concerns about this arrangement, you may bring them to marm, but this is condition of employment.”

“Condition of employment?” Jon questioned, voice heated. “I’ve never heard of such a condition to simply keep bar.” 

“You are not keeping bar, you are keeping The Dragon,” Grey clarified sternly. 

“I’m not sure what the difference is.” 

Grey’s nostrils flared. “The walk to Bellows Town is nearly one hour.”

“And?” he said, turning his hands up on the table. “What if I am fond of walking?”

Grey pulled out a pen from his jacket pocket, hanging on the coat rack to his left. He diulged out a tiny ledger from the other. “I will make note,” he began, voice surly, “to arrange meeting with you and Miss Targaryen.”

“I thought I wasn’t to have contact with Miss Targaryen,” Jon rebutted a bit hotly, trying to ignore how jarring it was to see a Ghiscari of his age and in this neighborhood  _ write _ . 

“Miss Targaryen take care of her people,” Grey countered, his own ire rising as he scribbled in his ledger. “She pay you to keep her pub and allow you to stay rent free in flat upstairs, but she will listen to your… complaining if you wish it.”

Jon couldn’t keep the alarm bells from ringing loudly in his head. If he requested such a meeting, what would he say? How could he talk about his… reservations without blowing his cover before the mission really started? He cleared his throat, gathered himself. “What kind of danger am I in, Mr. Grey, if I am not allowed to live where I choose?”

Grey’s eyes turned cold, hard. “You were Cloak once, Jon Snow. You should know.” 

_ Godsdamnit. _ Either Daenerys expected trouble (from him, the Cloaks, or rival factions— maybe all three), or this was some sort of trick and she was trying to test him or keep her options open. He didn’t know which scenario was better for his health. 

“Do I have a choice?” he gritted out.

Grey looked at him, considering. “We can grant you… how do you say… prohibition time?”

“Probationary?” Jon offered. 

“Probationary time… yes. Of one week,” Grey declared, holding up his index finger. “You work here in that time and you may stay in Bellows Town. After, we talk.”

Honestly, it was a veritable fortune compared to what Jon had assumed he was going to be offered. This way, he could feel it out better, coordinate with Robb, instead of being kept under lock and key from the start. 

He nodded, knocking his fist on the table. “Agreed.”

Grey looked relieved, beyond eager to leave him to Davos. He began gathering his things. “I can still tell marm you wish to speak with her.”

“No,” Jon answered, perhaps just a tad too quickly. “No, that’s… we can meet next week and go from there, eh?”

There it was again, that skeptical crease between the man’s brows. 

But he said no more, instead offering a hand for Jon to take. 

That’s when he noticed the tattoo on the man’s neck, though Grey had tried his best to hide it under his shirt collar. It looked to be the beginning of a number. 

An  _ Unsullied _ . 

Fuck.

Jon took hold of the man’s hand, calloused. Scarred. The hands of a soldier. 

Or a slave. 

“In one week, Jon Snow.” 

  
  


+++ 

  
  


“You shouldn’t have gone for The Dragon,” Tywin declared through gritted teeth as he threw the police report down on his handsome desk with a ‘ _ thwack _ ’. His head was already throbbing, the pressure growing around his temples. “It’s the one place that shouldn’t be touched.”

Janos Slynt shifted in his chair, cleared his throat. “Sir, it’s precisely  _ because  _ The Dragon is such sacred ground to these lowlifes… that we presumed to infiltrate—“

“Fool!” Tywin cried, pacing to the hearth. “Can you not see past your own nose, ser Janos? Can you, for one fleeting moment, not think like a simpleton backwater constable who has only had to throw drunkards in jail to dry out for the night?” 

Janos grimaced, wounded, and looked to the floor. “Bronn Blackwater offered us information that should prove vital—“

“Bronn Blackwater is a snake,” Tywin gritted, stepping closer to his unfortunate Lord Commander. “He gave you no more than what Daenerys Targaryen wanted you to have, you enormous half wit.”

Janos sank into his chair, too terrified or else too stupid to think of anything clever to defend himself with. Tywin stalked back to his desk, sat down heavily and grabbed up his pen, loading it up with ink. “We’ve underestimated her for far too long,” He declared, scribbling out his plan with all haste. He peered over at his companion, the man that he had to work with to bring down a woman who had not only proven to be a revolutionary nuisance, a woman who was the last member of a once rival house, but a woman who was now in possession of government property that by all accounts should not exist. 

If he were any other man, he might just turn in his resignation to the king right then and there. “Tell me, lord Janos, what other pubs, neighborhoods and gangs pay Targaryen for her protection?”

Janos sputtered. “Well… most everyone in Flea Bottom, my lord.” 

Tywin barked a laugh. “Flea Bottom!” he exclaimed. “Is that what your three hundred gold dragons bought you, Lord Commander? Confirmation that Daenerys Targaryen has control over the festering wound that is Flea Bottom?” He returned to his paper, barely able to hide his disgust. “Brilliant police work.” 

Janos sat, mute and ashamed. 

“Daenerys Targaryen did not land in this city without help, Lord Commander,” he explained as patiently as he could. “She landed with Ghiscari mercenaries. The best in the world. Dothraki gypsy scum that spy and scam. She has made allies with almost every crime ring in this miserable city and you come to me gloating of a raid on her own pub?”

“If she doesn’t have the Cloaks, she doesn’t have shit,” Janos protested. 

“You’re right in that, at least,” Tywin replied with a tiredly. “But she has more than just corrupt policemen. She has  _ friends _ . In the government, in the world of crime, and even in the world of law.” 

“So what do you want me to do, my lord?”

Tywin leaned back in his chair. “Attack her own pub, and her allies only curl in on themselves… like the prickly beasts they are. If the Cloaks can’t be trusted to not attack such sacred spaces, why work with the law?” He tapped a finger on his desk. “But attack her  _ allies _ . The people she is sworn to protect… and then we shall see how long she is able to keep hold of her throne.” 

Janos considered this, his round, witless face scrunching in thought. “Commander Aliser does have a plan. Seeing as though we’ve left the Dragon without a keeper.”

Tywin paused in his scribbling, raising his eyebrows. “Go on.” 

“He’s worked out something like a bargain with Robb Stark and his brother, Jon Snow.” 

Tywin scowled at that. “Jon Snow? The Cloak killer?” 

Janos nodded. “Commander Thorne seems to think that Jon Snow will be willing to cooperate, to get his service record expunged. Turns out life isn’t easy when you’re a Cloak killer, but it can certainly get you on the Queen of Thieves good side.” 

Tywin considered that for a moment, stroking his chin. Maybe the Cloaks weren’t as hopeless as he’d previously assumed. “I knew Aliser would do well in the 11th precinct.” He leaned over his desk, hands folded in front of him. “What does Commander Thorne wish to get from this bargain?” 

Janos smiled, smarmy and thin, nothing warm about it. “To kill two birds with one stone.” 

Tywin smiled back, just as cold. “As much as I am an admirer of…  _ efficient _ plans, Janos, tell your commander that he has permission to kill _ one _ bird with one stone. The other is mine.” He stood up as Janos nodded and stood with him. Tywin handed the man his notes. “Give these to Commander Thorne. As privately as you can manage.” 

Janos nodded and made for the door with a bow and a muttered ‘my lord’.

“Lord Commander,” Tywin called after him and Janos halted at the door. “Do try to make it look like an accident… or at least retribution on Targaryen’s end.” He sighed as he settled down behind his desk again. “Can’t have it look as though the government targeted one of its own heroes, can we?”

  
  


+++ 

  
  


Jon halted in his counting, senses heightened. 

There was the unmistakable sound of a bolt sliding free from a lock, and then the creak and thud of a door opening and closing again. 

“Hello?” a voice called from the dining room. 

Jon felt his heart stop, and then pound against his ribs. He rose slowly from his chair, pulling the desk drawer open as quietly as he could to get to his gun. 

“Jon Snow?”

He stilled... not only at the sound of his name, but the nature of the voice that uttered it. It was the voice of a woman. And there was only one woman he knew of that had a key to the Dragon. 

His mouth went dry as his hand hovered over his pistol. He grabbed it up anyway— he was a newcomer here, in a dangerous place and precarious position. No use in being careless. 

He took a breath and walked out of the office and into the dining room. 

Though it was dark, the streetlights shone in through the windows well enough, and he could see the silhouette of a woman standing at the bar, as if she were patiently awaiting a drink. 

“There you are,” the woman said, “I was just beginning to think you were closed.”

“We  _ are _ closed,” he returned without really thinking. He’d only been working here for two days, but was already well used to the many patrons who thought the operating hours did not apply to them. 

The woman tittered as he came closer, slowly, keeping the bar between him and his mysterious guest. He could not properly see her face in the gloom, but the moonwhite glow of her elaborately braided and pinned hair was unmistakable. He cleared his throat. “What can I get for you, marm?”

She hummed, evidently impressed. “You know who I am?”

He swallowed, thrill and dread taking hold of him all at once. He had been told, quite explicitly, that he would have minimal contact with Daenerys Targaryen, and now she was standing unguarded and presumably unarmed in the pub she had hired him to run as if nothing could be more ordinary.

He tucked his gun under his waistband at his back and motioned to her. “The hair,” he answered as he turned around so she may see the gun. He took a tumbler down from the shelf. One of the finer ones, with a heavy bottom. “And everyone calls you ‘marm’.”

“Just because everyone does it, doesn’t mean you must, Mr. Snow,” she returned as she fiddled with her satchel. She took something out of it and Jon heard the ‘click’ of what could only be a cigarette case. “Do you have a light?”

Jon nodded, rummaging in his pocket and pulling out one of the pub match books he kept on his person at all times. The match came alight with a hiss of sulphur, and the stranger before him and as revealed in a wash of amber. 

It took the flame burning his finger tips to realize he was staring. 

He winced, muttered a curse, and threw the match to the floor to snuff it out it with his boot. 

“May I see that matchbook, Mr. Snow?”

Jon hesitated, a bit thrown by the request, but passed it to her. She took it and removed the chimney from one of the brass bar lamps, turned the little dial that spooled and unspooled the wick, and lit it up. “These wicks need to be trimmed at the end of the night,” she told him as she blew out the match and turned back to him. 

“Yes, marm,” he answered, his mouth feeling dry. The lantern just made her seem lovelier— her eyes light and dark at once, lips like a bow and skin as white and flawless as ivory. She wore a black lace hat, and a simple black dress with some beaded detailing about the collar. She was bare armed and without scarf or shawl— it was entirely too warm for that, he reasoned, even at this late hour, but it didn’t make it any less distracting. “I… forgot.” He landed on lamely. 

She looked at him, something in her gaze thoughtful, maybe vaguely suspicious. He wasn’t quite sure what to do under such scrutiny except stare back. 

He cleared his throat after a time, falling back on what was expected of him— a barkeep. He bent to retrieve one of the copper ashtrays from a cabinet and placed it in front of her. “What’s your poison?”

She gave him a little smile that had his cheeks warming, for some reason. “Gin.”

“Ice?”

“We still have some left?”

Jon grimaced as he pulled the cork from the bottle and poured it into her glass. “No, now that you mention it.” He laughed, maybe a bit forced, a bit nervous, and returned the gin to its proper place. He shrugged apologetically as he leaned on the back counter, arms crossed. “Force of habit. Sorry, marm.”

“Don’t mention it. I don’t like ice in my gin anyway,” she replied, again, with a tiny little smile. She pointed at him with her cigarette, then indicated the many bottles sitting idle next to him. “Please.”

He wasn’t so sure it was a good idea at first, but he finally relented… figuring it would be better to humor her than to not. He pulled a tumbler from the counter and poured himself a whiskey. 

“Ahh,” she crowed, “figured you’d be a whiskey man,”

_ You know everything else about me _ , he thought bitterly to himself,  _ why not what I drink? _ “And I figured you’d be a gin drinker.” 

She laughed, ashed her cigarette and looked back up at him, expression gone serious. “You must be wondering why I’m here.”

Jon shrugged, playing it off. “‘S'your pub.”

She inclined her head. “Astute, Mr. Snow.”

“But I’m guessing that’s not why you’re here.” 

“Correct,” she answered, “I have heard that you are not… content with the boarding clause of your employment contract.”

He shifted his feet, crossed his arms, not really knowing what to do with himself or how to speak about such matters with such company. “I haven’t heard of many barkeep jobs that come with room and board.”

Daenerys blew a long stream of smoke through her lips. He did not want to admit how distracting he found it. “Most barkeeps own the pub.”

Jon coughed, looked away. “Fair enough,” he conceded. “Still doesn’t explain why I should get three Stags a week, tips, and a flat.”

She peered at him, skeptical and thoughtful all at once. “Most men wouldn’t question it.” 

He scoffed at that. “Most men are stupid.”

She raised her eyebrows at that, thumb running over the filter of her cigarette. “Am I to take that as an indictment, Jon Snow?” She waved her hand, took a drag of her smoke. “That most men are stupid to trust me?”

He sighed, hanging his head. The last thing he wanted to do was piss off his new employer— the delightful added complication of her being the target of his mission notwithstanding. “I think it is…  _ unreasonable _ of you, marm, to expect me to accept such a handsome and seemingly  _ easy  _ offer without question.” He took a bracing quaff of his whiskey, winced. It was not very good. He’d have to talk to her about that… if he still had a job or his head after tonight. “In my experience, a deal that is too good to be true—“

“Usually is,” Daenerys finished for him, snubbing out her cigarette. 

Jon nodded, relieved that she was with him. “So, marm, I hope you understand the nature of my hesitation.”

“I understand your hesitation,” she began, swirling the gin in her glass, “but not necessarily said nature of it.”

He prickled at that, wanting nothing more than to point out that she may know how many medals he threw in the Black and how many years he was a Cloak, but she wouldn’t know anything about him or his ‘nature’.

She folded her hands in front of her, sitting straighter, some of her chummy, carefree demeanor falling away. She looked almost… sad. “I was once trapped, too, Mr. Snow.” 

He felt his shoulders tense up, ice bloom somewhere in his chest. He stared at her, flummoxed and not daring to believe where she might go with this. 

“A prisoner, if you will,” she went on, lighting up another cigarette. “Sold to the last Horse Lord of the Dothraki as a last ditch effort to pay my family’s considerable debts.” 

Jon understood that such things were still practiced… but only on a superficial ‘in faraway places’ sort of way. He cleared his throat and nodded to her. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” 

“And I’m sorry about what happened to you,” she responded softly, voice growing deeper. 

Again, he felt as struck as with a club, stunned into silence. 

She ashed her cigarette with her index. “I saw the prison camps on the Royne. Horrible.”

He swallowed, blood rushing in his ears. Somewhere, far away in his mind, he could hear the clack of a billy club over iron bars. “How d’you know this?” he husked.

“They call you the White Wolf of the Royne,” she answered instead. 

He slammed his eyes shut, looked down to the floor, trying to get a grip on himself. “Used to,” he managed to reply, meeting her eyes again. “Not anymore.”

She paused, looking him over, and he felt oddly, and unnervingly  _ known _ . Sweat had started to pool over his collarbones, over his palms. “I am not trying to trap you, Mr. Snow,” she said, voice still low and quiet. Sincere. “I am trying to protect you.” 

“What exactly are you protecting me from?” he demanded, some heat returning to his voice. “What does a barkeep need protection for?” 

She paused, regarding him again, and he really wished she wouldn’t. It was making him feel such a swirl of emotions he had not one idea what to do with them all. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Snow?”

He barked a laugh at that. “Everyone in the lower five, and I’m guessing in the upper four knows who you are, marm.” 

She ashed her cigarette, a little satisfied smile in the corner of her mouth. “Do you know what it is that I do?” 

He paused at that, not sure how to answer, or what the goal of this question was. “You steal things,” he landed on. The simplest, most truthful answer he could think of. 

She laughed, took one last draw of her smoke, before snuffing it out. “That’s a way to put it, I suppose.” 

Jon shrugged, and they fell silent for a moment, the hiss of the lantern and the clatter of a lone carriage trundling down the street the only sound for a time. 

“Forgive me, marm,” Jon finally pressed, refilling her gin without needing to be asked, “but I am still curious as to what you aim to protect me from.” He leaned back against the counter, regarding her thoughtfully. “And, pardon any offense, but most employers wouldn’t go to such lengths as to protect a barkeep.” 

She looked down at the counter, thinking it over. “You missed something, Mr. Snow, about who I am and what I do. Do you know what ‘marm’ actually means?”

“It’s a kind of endearment… it means ‘mother’.”

She nodded. “I am a thief, a criminal, and sometimes a murderer. But I also help people. Help those many choose to cast aside.”

He nodded. “Aye, I’ve heard that as well.”

“You seem doubtful.” 

He shrugged. “That should go without saying at this point, marm.” 

“I wonder, Mr. Snow,” she inquired, voice pitched in something that could be derision… or perhaps teasing. “Are you simply a skeptic, or a cynic?” 

He finished his whiskey to keep himself from responding to that. 

“No matter,” Daenerys sighed, “that is not the point… the point is, when you start to help people, you make enemies. Because you cannot help people without hurting those who exploit them.”

He frowned, thinking it over. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“I have made many enemies, Mr. Snow,” she replied, tucking her cigarette case back into her satchel, making to leave. “And so have you.” 

He froze at that, his throat closed up.

She slung her bag over her shoulder. “You killed a Cloak, Jon Snow. Do you really think your brother can keep you safe forever?” 

He had absolutely no answer to this. His brain had locked up, a buzzing filling his head like a mob of flies. What did she know that he didn’t?

She clicked her tongue, and that’s when he realized that her three famous hounds had been lying silently and obediently at her feet the whole of their conversation. She had not, in fact, come unguarded afterall. They whined and stretched, thin tails wagging in the street light. 

Something about the absurdity of the whole evening unlocked his tongue.

“Marm,” he called as she walked to the doors. She turned around, waiting. He licked his lips, not truly knowing what he meant to tell her or ask her. “Why?” He waved a hand to the bar, to the dining room. “Why give me this job? Why go to such lengths to protect me from something that has nothing to do with you?” 

She paused, hands folded in front of her as her dogs settled on their haunches, realizing that they would not be off just yet. “I also escaped my bondage, Mr. Snow, just as you. And just as you, I brought my fellow prisoners with me.” 

The silence laid between them was heavy, charged, and his skin felt…  _ electrified _ . 

“I believe we can help each other.” She turned to leave again. “Be a dear and lock up after me, Mr. Snow,” she called. “Until we next meet.” 

  
  


+++

  
  


_ “Break a mirror _

_ Roll the dice _

_ Run with scissors through a chip and fryer fight _

_ Go into business with a grizzly bear _

_ But just don't sit down 'cause I've moved your chair” _

\-- “Don’t Sit Down Cause I’ve Moved Your Chair”, The Arctic Monkeys

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> big shout out, again, to justwanderingneverlost for coaching me through this weird, weird idea that took hold of me. for the once overs, the words of wisdom, and of course that beautiful mood board!
> 
> thank you to the Tarts for their continued support, love and just general amazing-ness. they have kept me going through these tough months i've had. 
> 
> i know this is another WIP that no one asked for or wants and many of you are grumbling and tapping their foot, wondering what has become of my other WIPs, but HEY! i finally have momentum and inspiration to write again, something that i was lacking for far too long. it is carrying over into my other projects, i promise. just hope y'all enjoy this self indulgence. i know i am. please let me know what you think! <s>(sorry it's 13k)</s>
> 
> come say hi one tumblr @frostbitepandaaaaa!


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